Violence is in the hand that holds the knife:
One cut to the knee,
Two to the shoulder,
And far too many to the wrists.
Reopened scars paint your body in red, the only color you notice now
You can no longer see the bright colors of the world.
As one cut is too deep,
The blood rushes out fast
And light turns to black-
Making you sink deeper into death.
But that’s what you wanted, was it not?
An escape from this world,
Where you say you have no one.
You have no one?
Where was I when I listened to you.
Talk about the fight with your mother?
Where was I when I held you,
As you cried after being beaten by your father’s drunken fists?
Tears run down your purple and blue bruised face,
Two more colors to add to your sad collection.
Where am I now-
As you lay in the colorless hospital?
I’m standing by your lifeless body
Holding your cold hand.
Hearing a constant beep that never has a break,
Looking at your pale face.
The colors are gone. All of them:
No more bright reds and oranges of a July summer day,
Or the dark blues, purples and grays of a cold November night.
The colors have gone, and you have gone with them.
